Skelly sat with his back against the white-painted columns on Lorraine’s front porch, gazing up at the sky. An owl hooted from the top of an ancient pecan tree that shaded the far end of the house. “It’s sure a pretty night. Clear as a bell. I bet you don’t see this kind of night in Atlanta, with all the lights of the city around.”
Conley stole a glance at her old friend’s profile. There were fine lines etched around his eyes, and she could see flecks of silver in Skelly’s beard.
“No,” she agreed, inhaling the scent of the night-blooming jasmine that wound around the wrought iron porch railing. “To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the last time I even looked up to see the night sky in Atlanta.”
“Everything all right out at the beach when you finally got there?” he asked.
“Yeah. Well, actually, it was kind of sad. The Dunes seems so run-down, and G’mama has me kind of worried. I didn’t want to believe Gray, but G’mama really has started to slow down. This year, she said she and Winnie want to stay downstairs in the bunk rooms. She made out like it was because of Winnie’s bad hip, but I think she really doesn’t want to have to go up and down those stairs all the time. She insisted that I take her old room on the top floor.”
“How old is Miss Lorraine?”
“It’s a state secret. Eighty something?”
“Count yourself lucky that she’s in as good a shape as she is,” Skelly said. “My mom is only sixty-eight, and some days, she can’t figure out how to button her own shirt or fasten a bra.”
“Oh, Skelly.” Conley touched his knee. “Don’t tell me you have to—”
“Not yet, thank God,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I hired an aide who comes in every day to help her bathe and get dressed. I bought her a bunch of ladies’ undershirts, the kind we always used to call wifebeaters? She’s awful skinny now, so it’s not like she really needs a bra. And then I finally just gave away all her blouses and tops with buttons, and now she wears T-shirts that she can just pull on. And pants with elastic.”
“Pretty resourceful,” Conley said.
“She cried when she saw I’d cleaned out her closet,” Skelly said. “She keeps asking me what happened to all her pretty church dresses and high-heel shoes.”
“Your mama was always the most stylish woman in town,” Conley said. “I always used to love her clothes.”
“I’ve got three big trash bags at home if you need some church dresses,” he said. “I still don’t have the heart to just throw ’em out.”
“Your mama was like a size 4,” Conley said. “I couldn’t get in one of her dresses if my life depended on it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Hey,” she said, deciding it was time to switch up the topic of discussion. “I detoured by the Bronson County Sheriff’s Office on the way into town earlier to pick up the police report on Symmes Robinette’s accident.”
“Oh yeah? Anything interesting?”
“Not really. I’m hoping to talk to the sheriff in the morning. Merle Goggins. You know him?”
Skelly shook his head.
“I need to find out if the cops have any idea of what caused that wreck. We sure didn’t see any cars coming or going, right?”
“Right.”
“And then, the obvious question is, what was a seventy-seven-year-old man doing cruising around way out in the boonies at that hour? The police report said Robinette’s house is someplace called Sugar Key. Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It’s a new gated community some developer built out at the end of Pelican Point,” Skelly said. “Very ritzy. Very exclusive. There’s an eighteen-hole golf course and a swim and tennis facility under construction, but only about nine or ten houses have been sold so far. From what I’ve heard, the cheapest house starts at around two mil.”
“Huh. From what I remember, Pelican Point has to be at least thirty miles from where we found that wreck,” Conley said. “And that’s mighty rich real estate for a Podunk place like Silver Bay. I wouldn’t have guessed there were that many folks with that kind of money living in this part of the state.”
“Believe it,” Skelly said. “They keep it low-key, but they’re around. I hear the CEO of GulfBanc has a second home out there, and a venture capital guy from Birmingham lives there full-time now. And of course Miles Schoendienst.”
“The railroad guy? From Atlanta?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“I know of him. He’s a big political donor—supports both Democrats and Republicans, depending on the issue.”
“Huh,” Skelly said. “So that’s just Schoendienst’s vacation house? Damn! It’s huge. Must be at least ten thousand square feet. Right at the point where the bay meets the Gulf. But it’s so far off the road, you can only see it from a boat. It looks like a Spanish castle.”
“You party with the likes of Miles Schoendienst?” Conley asked, only half joking. “The drugstore business must be in way better shape than weekly newspapers.”
“Not,” Skelly said. “Family-owned pharmacies like mine are a dying breed. We can’t compete with CVS and Walgreens. Not to mention the online pharmacies. I’ve been out to Sugar Key exactly twice—both times, come to think of it, were to drop off prescriptions for Symmes Robinette.”
“You still make deliveries?”
“For old customers, yeah. Mom always said service was what separated us from the chain stores. We don’t advertise it, but I make deliveries if somebody requests it.”
Conley was intrigued. “What kind of stuff were you delivering to Symmes Robinette?”
“Nice try. You know about HIPAA regulations, right? There’s such a thing as patient privacy.”
“But this patient is dead,” Conley pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about something else, okay? I shouldn’t even have mentioned that he was a customer.”
“Was Robinette sick?” Conley knew she was pushing, but she couldn’t help herself. “Maybe that’s why he crashed the Escalade.”
“No comment,” Skelly said firmly.
“You’re no fun.”
“That’s what my ex always said too.”
“Ouch. From the research I did earlier, I saw that Robinette’s house in D.C. was in Georgetown. I didn’t look up the tax records yet, but there’s nothing cheap in Georgetown.”
“What’s your point?” Skelly asked. “Symmes was a lawyer. All lawyers are rich, right?”
“He’s been in elected office for decades. Hasn’t practiced law in forty years. So where’s a small-town lawyer come up with the kind of money to own millions of dollars’ worth of real estate?”
“It’s not against the law to be a rich politician. Maybe he’s done really well in the stock market. Are you suggesting Robinette was some kind of crook?” Skelly asked.
“Not suggesting anything. Yet. I’m just doing what my old editor called turning over rocks. To see what crawls out from under, you know?”
Skelly fixed her with a stern expression. “This isn’t Atlanta, Conley. Symmes Robinette was a hero to a lot of people around here. With the exception of my mama. You need to be real careful about what kind of rocks you turn over in Silver Bay. It’s a small town, and people take this stuff real personal.”
“So … don’t go poking any bears? Is that what you’re saying?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“I’ll be discreet, but if there’s a story here, I’m gonna find it, Skelly. That’s what I do. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But what happened to kicking back at the beach? Hanging out with your grandmother?”
“Who says I can’t do both? Speaking of family,” she asked, trying to sound casual, “what’s up with the Little Prince these days?”
“Charlie? He’s a lawyer in the old man’s law firm. He’s a customer at the drugstore. I see him at the country club occasionally, although I haven’t been over there since, well, since Danielle left. I know he hangs with the courthouse crowd. Very preppy. I think he’s what they call an up-and-comer.”
“So a chip off the old block. I wonder—”
“Oh shit!” Skelly jumped to his feet. “Mama?”
A tiny, wraithlike figure walked briskly down the sidewalk in their direction. She was barefoot, wearing an oversize white undershirt, and was, from what Conley could see, naked from the waist down.
“Patrick?” June called. Her voice was startlingly loud and shrill, coming from such a diminutive body. She stood outside the wrought iron fence surrounding Lorraine’s yard, searching for her long-dead husband.
Skelly rushed to his mother’s side, taking her by the arm. “Mama, what are you doing out here? What happened to your clothes?”
“I’ll go get her something to wrap up in,” Conley said. She went inside and came out with the first thing at hand, a crocheted throw G’mama kept in a basket by the hall closet.
She flew down the steps and handed the blanket to Skelly, who struggled to wrap the throw around his mother’s waist.
“Patrick?” June Kelly gave her son a stern look. “I’ve been calling and calling you. Your supper is ready. Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Sean said. “I just came down here for a moment. Let’s go on home now and get you back to bed. It’s pretty late.”
June brushed her son aside, letting the throw fall to the grass. Conley couldn’t help but stare. What had happened to her beautiful, stylish, accomplished neighbor? Sean’s mother’s face was smooth and unlined, but she wore grotesquely smeared red lipstick, and her thinning white hair stood out from her head like a barbed wire halo.
“Who’s that?” June Kelly demanded, pointing at Conley. “Your new girlfriend?”
Skelly shot her an apologetic look as he tried again to cover his mother’s exposed lower body.
“This is Sarah Conley Hawkins, Mama. You know Sarah. She’s Chet and Melinda’s daughter. Lorraine’s granddaughter. Come back to town to visit.”
“Don’t lie to me, Patrick.” June batted his hands away. “Is this your girlfriend? One of the nurses at the hospital? Or one of your so-called patients? How dare you!”
June Kelly’s brilliant blue eyes searched Conley’s face, trying to make a connection. Conley thought about all the times Miss June had treated her to a free ice cream cone at the soda fountain. She thought about the pharmacist’s immaculately starched white lab coats with her name stitched in cursive letters over the breast pocket that she’d worn over her pretty dresses. June Kelly, RPh.
“It’s me, Miss June,” Conley said, taking the older woman’s fragile arm. “Sarah Conley. Sean’s friend from down the street. Remember me?”
“Sarah? From down the street?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Conley said. She picked up the throw and fastened it, sari-style, looping one end over the older woman’s shoulder and knotting it securely in front before taking a step backward.
Skelly mouthed a mute “Thanks.” He took his mother’s arm and gently turned her back toward the sidewalk. “Let’s go home. Okay? I can’t wait to see what you fixed for dinner.”
“Pot roast! Your favorite,” June said cheerfully. “And cherry pie.”
They were halfway down the sidewalk. “Thanks, Conley. I’ll bring the blanket back tomorrow.” Skelly’s voice floated in the warm evening air.
She went back inside and tried to resume her research on Symmes Robinette. Many of the references to Robinette focused on his political life, his campaigns, and his accomplishments. There was precious little about his life back in his home district in Silver Bay.
She picked up her phone and hesitated. It was late; maybe her sister was in bed. She texted instead.
Hey, Gray. Doing research for the obit on Robinette. Can’t find any online articles from The Beacon. Help.
Her phone rang as soon as she’d finished sending the text.
“Hey. Where are you?” Grayson asked. Conley could hear the clatter of glassware and voices in the background. Maybe a television too.
“I’m in town at G’mama’s house. There’s no Wi-Fi at the beach. Where are you?”
“No place special. You’re not gonna find any online articles from the Beacon.”
“We’re not digitized?”
“No, we’re not digitized. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a small-town weekly. If you want to search the back issues for stories on Robinette, you’ll have to go over to the office and look through the bound volumes.”
“Ugh. That’ll take forever. I don’t even know what I’m really looking for. So I’m guessing there’s no index either, right?”
“Nope.” Grayson sounded amused that she would even ask. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Everything. Local color. Family. Hey, did you know Symmes Robinette was married before?”
“Before what?”
“Before Vanessa, who, by the way, is probably twenty years younger than the late congressman.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask G’mama. She’s always up on all the latest dirt. Or better yet, get with Rowena.”
“Ugh. Rowena. Say, Gray, what do you know about the sheriff over in Bronson County?”
“Merle? He’s only been in office a couple years. But he seems okay. He’s black, you know.”
“So?”
“So it might not be newsworthy in Atlanta, but it is around here.”
“Do you know him?”
“Sort of. We’re in Rotary together.”
“Good. Call him up first thing in the morning and ask him to give your new star reporter a phone call. His deputy isn’t what I’d call helpful.”
“What do you want to talk to him about?”
Conley rolled her eyes in frustration. “Symmes Robinette. Duh. The accident was in your sheriff buddy’s jurisdiction. I need to know why Symmes was thirty miles from his ritzy oceanfront home at three in the morning, and I need to know the official cause of death.”
“Call me stupid, but isn’t his death gonna be from being burned alive in a car wreck?”
You are stupid, Conley thought. “We don’t know that. There were no other cars around. I want to know what caused the wreck and whether he was alive when the fire started.”
“Okay, yeah. That makes sense,” Grayson said.
“I also need to talk to the district medical examiner. I don’t suppose you’re in Rotary with him too?”
“Nope. But maybe George McFall would know something.”
“From the funeral home?”
“Yeah, if the body’s been released. George McFall has probably seen more corpses in his lifetime than any M.D. you can name.”
“But what if there’s, like, criminal evidence?”
“Then I think the medical examiner calls in the state crime lab. But you’re not thinking there’s something criminal going on with Symmes’s death, right?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s just … odd. Do you think George would talk to me?”
“He’d talk to you all day long about Florida State football or the evils of cremation versus burial in a $5,000 coffin, but I have no idea if he’d talk to you about what killed Symmes Robinette,” Grayson said.
“Is he in Rotary with you?”
“Yeah. He’s president this year.”
“Great. How about you work your way down the Rotary membership roll, call up all your good-old-boy buddies in town, and ask them really nicely to talk to your sister about how Symmes Robinette died.”
“There are lots of women in Rotary now, you know. It’s not just men like it used to be.”
If she stayed on the phone with her sister much longer, Conley thought, she might pull her eye muscles from rolling them so hard and so often. If that was possible. This was something she’d make sure to ask George McFall about.
“Good to know,” she said. “Do you have Rowena’s phone number?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you please text it to me?”
“I will, but you can’t call her this late at night.”
“Duly noted,” Conley said. “One more question. When’s payday?”
“Friday. But we usually hold a first paycheck back for new hires.”
“Not this time, Gray,” Conley said. “Not if you want my byline in next week’s paper.”